pristine sandy beaches, the higher the price tag. The homes in this block are big and boxy and built on stilts so they won’t get flooded when the next hurricane hits.
“Rentals,” I say to Ceepak as we walk away from our tenth empty home. These mansions are a lot like Sea Haven-they fill up after the Fourth of July and empty out after Labor Day.
Finally, at number 3 Tangerine Street, we find a human being.
And a dog.
We actually hear from the dog first, because the instant we ding the dong, there’s snarling and growling on the other side of the door.
“Puck? Sit!”
Puck is not sitting. His paws are still trying to scrape through the door.
“Puck? Heel!”
Okay, I’m not a dog owner, but I know “heel” is not the correct command in this situation, unless, of course, the screaming woman is giving tips on what part of our bodies the mutt should aim for first.
I see Ceepak unsnapping the right thigh pocket on his cargo pants. That’s where he keeps the Snausages.
The door creaks open. About two inches.
The snarling beast is a little yappy lap dog. One of those white fluff balls that looks like a dust mop without the pole.
Towering over him is a woman in a bathrobe. Her hair is bundled up in a towel turban. She has seaweed smeared all over her face. We’ll call her Mrs. Shrek.
“May I give your dog a treat?” asks Ceepak. He always asks first. In these pricey neighborhoods, you never know when the mutts might be on a holistic, wheat-free, ultra-low-carb, all-raw, mercury-free, vegan doggy diet.
“What is it?” the woman asks.
Told you.
“A new product called Snawsomes. Peanut butter and apple flavor. My dog loves them.”
“Sorry. Puck is only allowed Banana Pupcakes. Our maid bakes them.”
Puck drops to all fours and is content to grumble at us. Or his owner. I think he sniffed out the Snawsomes and is miffed that he has to go organic.
“Maria was giving me a seaweed facial,” she says, gesturing toward her green mask. Guess that’s why it looks like she fell asleep over a bowl of split-pea soup. “Are you two here on official business?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Officer Ceepak. This is my partner, Officer Boyle.”
“Valerie D’Ambrosio.”
“Ms. D’Ambrosio, the Sea Haven Police Department is investigating an incident here on Tangerine Street.”
“Did someone call in a complaint? Because it wasn’t me.”
“Did you hear or see anything unusual last night.”
She hesitates. “No. But, as I told the other officer, I sleep with ear plugs.”
“What other officer?”
“I forget. Italian name. Santa Lucci.”
“Santucci?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I glance over my shoulder. See Santucci and Murray working the opposite side of the street. I wonder how they got here before us.
The woman in the door crack shifts her weight. Ceepak and I see way too much thigh. It’s spray-tanned and scary. Think congealed beef gravy.
“You know, come to think of it, Puck might’ve heard something-very late. Three or four in the morning.”
“How’s that?”
“He started barking up a storm. I didn’t get out of bed, of course. My doctor has me on Ambien. Makes me groggy.”
“Do you know the people who live up the street at 145 Tangerine?”
“No.”
Ceepak fishes a business card out of his shirt pocket. “If you think of anything else, please give us a call.”
We walk away from the house.
“So how did Santucci get down here before us?” I ask.
“Not knowing, can’t say.”
“Sounds like the dog is our only witness.”
“So far, Danny. So far.”
We have one more house to check out on this side of the street, so we hike down the asphalt. There are no sidewalks on Tangerine, just the pavement, then the sandy edge of the pavement, and then more sand, speckled with weed patches.
We pass a small breezeway between number 3 and number 1 Tangerine Street, definitely the most expensive house on the block. These ones on the beach corner usually sell for a couple million dollars. Then the new owner tears the old house down and builds a modern-art masterpiece of sharp angles with multiple sun decks for one or two million more. Up the breezeway, I see an outdoor shower, so the renters, or owners, can wash the sand and salt out of their hair when they come up from the beach.
“Looks like someone is staying here,” says Ceepak, indicating a recyclables bin at the corner. In the Rubbermaid barrel, I see dark green champagne bottles, vodka bottles, scotch bottles, and one of those squat cognac bottles you see in magazines but figured nobody ever actually drank out of because liquid gold would be cheaper.
We march up the concrete walkway past some shrubs, the kind that look like pine-coated curly fries. When we get to the porch we see something the neighbors probably can’t see or we’d get all sorts of complaints: lewd garden gnome sculptures, including a nude Mama and Papa Smurf testing out the springs in their ceramic Smurf bed and a naughty gnome flashing her boobies. There’s another gnome, wearing nothing but his red pointy hat, perched at the edge of the porch. He’s poised to pee on the rose bushes.
We ring the doorbell.
Knock on the door.
Ring again.
Knock again.
So unless the porno statues start talking, we’ve got nothing.
“We need to talk to Samantha’s mother,” says Ceepak. “See if she knows who rents out this house. Who the current occupants might be.”
Sam’s mom, Mrs. Starky, knows everything about everybody-a fact that creeps me out on a regular basis.
Santucci and Murray stroll across the street from number 2 Tangerine.
“You guys get anything?” asks Santucci.
“One dog who heard something at three A.M.,” I answer.
“Next door? The rug rat, right? Puck. Thing barks like a maniac. Yip-yip-yip.”
“How’d you get there before us?”
“The early bird gets the worm, Boyle. We got bubkis on the south side.” Santucci looks at his watch. “Three o’clock on the dot. I’m heading home. Guess you guys can’t, huh, Ceepak? Guess that comes with being ‘in charge’ of shit. Enjoy. Come on, Murray. Let’s roll. The Yankees are playing tonight.”
Santucci swaggers up the street toward their parked patrol car.
Murray hangs back. “You guys need anything? I’m good tonight if you want an extra pair of legs.”
“Appreciate that, Dylan,” says Ceepak. “Danny and I might run down some of Ms. Baker’s known acquaintances this evening. Not much more we can do until the M.E. completes the autopsy and MCU shares what
